And The Stuffed Bird Laughed
by RocketLawnchair
Summary: Honor among thieves, that's what they say. But no one ever mentioned assassins. When Cadoc murders a Red Jenny earner she's granted a formal hearing in Skyhold. But recruits are essential, and despite the protests of Sera she is allowed within the ranks. But not without sanction. Under the supervision of Warden Blackwall, Cadoc struggles to keep her decorated past hidden.
1. Chapter 1: Canary Yellow

**AND THE STUFFED BIRD LAUGHED  
** **Chapter 1: Canary Yellow** **  
**

* * *

Skyhold stood amidst the peaks of the Frostback Mountains, a climb made no easy trek due to the constant flurries of Winter's breath. Where snow collected at the soles of soldiers' boots, covered the land in a soft white broken only in places by the evergreens and brush of a long forgotten summer. The trees bowed with the weight of the snow, looming over the expanse of Winter like silent sentinels. Every now and again a clump of snow would come tumbling down between their branches and shower the walkways in crystal like rain mixed with green needles.

The boundaries of the fortress rose before them. A building of grandeur, as much a part of its environment as it was separate. Stilettos of silver ice clung to the parapets, veins of winter's exhale slithered between the cracks in stone and blossomed beautiful spirals over the woodwork of the citadel gates. For years Skyhold had been lost to the Morgana of the horizon, a shadow in the cliffs, ever present, but out of sight. Sheer luck had cleared the Inquisition's path to her hold after misfortune burned upon the grounds of Haven. From fire they climbed and sought shelter in Winter's reach. And it was here their Inquisition flourished, combatted the rot that strangled the lands and fought back the darkness that drove it. Still though, in every victory they found defeat, one step forward was never enough to make up for their stumble, or the victory of _another_.

Despite Inquisitor Trevelyan's best efforts, there was little he could do to quell the hostility between Kingdoms and Circles. Corypheus was certainly enemy number one, but he wasn't the _only_ enemy. People continued to squabble amongst themselves, as one war broke out, several more rose alongside them. Corypheus – he was simply the catalyst to an end.

And this elven assassin had done nothing to help its cause.

In fact, it could be argued she was just as bad: spurring petty quarrels between nobility as she took money under the table to cut their throats. Politics were much easier when your competitor wound up dead.

Too bad it didn't matter.  
Politics that was to say.

The murder of Corrine Le Paulmier hadn't been botched, but it surely hadn't gone perfectly well. Had circumstance been in her favor, the assassin might have gotten away with it, after all, she had gotten away with much worse. And truth be told – _**much better**_. But it was at that very same moment, in that one particular instance, that Inquisitor Trevelyan had dispatched several men to the Orlesian courts. It hadn't been in any response to any crime, nor to prevent such occasions, in fact, it had nothing to do with anything crooked or slightly sideways. It was all quite horizontal. And it was Lady Descoteaux falling vertically - that turned it upside down.

Which was all quite dizzying.

So, it was after her grand escape that Cadoc, for that was truly her name, suffered a less than grand arrest at the snide comments and hisses of the Orlesian public. She was more than displeased, not at them for their incivility, nor herself for being caught, but at the three guards that had shackled her wrists and marched her 101,868 easy steps east and 10,403 _very hard_ steps up. Truly they were just doing their job, but that didn't stop her from hating them all the more. The least they could have done was provide a caravan, this was just all sorts of awful.

And she determined that exact amount of awful to be: **6.**

 **1.** For having to walk up a mountain  
 **2.** With bland company  
 **3.** Shackled  
 **4.** Covered in fish slime  
 **5.** That had frozen  
 **6.** With no change of clothes

She also realized she might not have necessarily had the proper order of things, seeing as she was most certainly to be executed for her crimes against nobility. And not even any kind of _good_ nobility.

 _What a waste of a good story_ , she thought to herself.

But, she was already six hundred and sixty eight words in, so she figured, she might as well continue. Nothing ever really was good at the start, and she was certain this wasn't the end – or hers to be more precise, so there was nothing left to do but get to the middle.

"Barry Finlay."

A collective groan met her ears. By the grimace that possessed the Knight's face before her, it was more than obvious that these had not been her first words, nor her second, more likely so an uncountable number that read on every stern line that twisted his face into a deeper scowl. "Oh, come _**on**_ ," Sir Armont grit his teeth through dwindling patience.

"He's a scribe from the Free Marches. I believe it was he that said 'There is no mountain you cannot climb.' Do you think he meant that literally or figuratively? Because, I haven't climbed many mountains in my life, and I just now realize why, because it's awful. Do you guys seriously walk this route _everyday_? I'd quit. I don't care if the Inquisitor is the Herald of Andraste," and her inclination turned to the Knight astride her, "only trolls and Mad Kings build their castles atop mountains. You can quote me on that," she nodded, "it's a proven _**fact**_."

The grinding of Sir Armont's teeth was anything but faint between the elf's rabble. Never once did the senior Knight turn his eyes upon her, never once did he allow himself the pain of her _full_ attention, but yet he engaged her, against every fiber of his will. "You'd do well to remember that the Inquisitor holds _your_ fate in his hands, Elf, so I would, _unfortunately_ ," and the word came on a strained tongue, "advise you against calling him a troll." Snow crunched beneath the bite of the soldiers' boots, thick prints left behind marked their path, until an evening's flurry would wipe them away. Their march came to a halt as they approached Skyhold's gate, still shut to the world outside where obscured figures moved about behind its defense. Snow swirled the air, a dry breath that stung the lungs and escaped on dragon's steam. It brought with it the smell of pine and the undertone of a fire's ember, a sweetness burned around its edges and music danced in its ear. Drinks bought on a victory's coin gave voice to the revelries that gamboled with song, the soft strums of a lute, voice of silk, howls of rejoinder that dictated tales of battle that would become legends in their own lives. All of it drifted through that closed gate and offered a sense of welcome to a most unwelcomed guest.

"Open the gates," ordered Sir Armont.

"Who goes?" asked a timid voice.

"Sir Armont, Breckenridge, Dalton and one prisoner."

A pause and then, a heavy 'clunk,' the grind of link of link, as chains curled about the wheel that drove the fortification. It was a slow process as the timber block postern rose to grant the group entrance to the winter castle.

"Sir Armont," a young scout greeted them at the gate. She was a petite woman with a short mess of golden hair. It was obvious by her demeanor, the nervous inclination of gaze, the uneasy bend to her knees, that she was new, not just to Skyhold, but to the Inquisition. More than likely a farmhand seeking to better aid her Realm, or perhaps, just another someone with nowhere to go. Her fingers still grasped at the gate-helm, allowing the troop to fully pass beneath her guard before allowing the gate to release. "Acker said he saw you coming up the mountain, you're a day early. We weren't expecting you until tomorrow evening. I've already sent word to the Inquisitor of your early arrival, he'll be gathering the council for your hearing."

"Excellent."

"Is this the woman?" asked the scout.

"Unfortunately."

"Oh. Keep her away from Sera. She's a bit miffed. Apparently one of the women she, er, you, killed was a friend of hers. Don't think you'll make it to your hearing if you run into her."

"Good to know," Armont said.

"What if I apologized?" Cadoc interrupted. Her eyes grinned with a poorly veiled humor. There weren't many things in the realm that Cadoc cared less about when compared to the lives of three Orlesian women. Which wasn't to say that she did not feel one way in particular about the value of human life, just that theirs, individually and collectively, were worth less than the most minute of fractions. And even less than so that. Which was still quite insensitive to say. But of course, she'd never say that to their faces.

"I mean," said the elven woman, "It wouldn't be exactly heartfelt, because I don't mean it...at all." Or perhaps she just might.

"I don't…it doesn't work like that?" The scout furrowed her brow at the inquiry, unsure at the seriousness of the facetious elf's proposal. "I can see why you're early," she added in side to the Knights.

Sir Armont rose his brow in pointed reply.

"Sir Armont." The voice was familiar to Cadoc as it pierced through the stir of the afternoon's excitement. It was warm, inviting almost, even as Armont ushered in a shackled criminal. She knew its cadence from somewhere long ago, yet, could not in the moment, place memory to face. She squinted to the crowds and in its parting, glimpsed Skyhold's Commanding Knight Officer.

The Commander was young by any standard, yet experience showed in every manner of posture and carry. He had the air of a King, and the modesty of a commoner. He bore the scars of past battles, victories and loss, his eyes burned with the passion of a summer morning's sun and he smiled with its every warmth. Winter frosted feathered half cloak, a blue sunlight catching on what glimpses of armor shown beneath the wraps and tabards of a lost order.

"Commander Cullen," Sir Armont gave a slight bow of the head in greeting, the men beside him following in suit. Cadoc on the other hand, squinted one eye and cocked her head to the side.

"Acker told me you were early, good weather?" he asked.

"Bad company," snorted Armont. He shifted his position just enough for the Commander to glimpse the fish frozen elven assassin. "Found her on the docks covered in fish and blood. Murdered a couple Orlesian women, figured she might be a Crow. Maybe Lady Nightingale would know."

Cullen froze, his eyes focusing on the prisoner between guards. For the briefest of moments, his smile seemed to falter. "She's not a crow," he stated coldly.

Armont furrowed his brow. For a long while he looked at Cullen, then shifted his gaze to Cadoc, who only offered an over exaggerated shrug in response. "Sir?" he asked, "Do you know this woman?"

"Inquisitor Trevelyan is prepared to hear your plea," an uncharacteristic dullness robbed all color from his voice and left his words _**grey**_ , "I hope," he captivated the elven woman's gaze, "That you have a very good defense for your crimes," and more quietly so, added, " _For all of our sakes_."


	2. Chapter 1: Canary Red

**AND THE STUFFED BIRD LAUGHED  
Chapter 1: Canary Red**

* * *

There was clarity in the moment, not that there ever was an absence of. Cadoc wasn't crazy, nor half insane, Maker, if one knew her as well as Cullen, they'd know she was altogether there. Yet altogether there was a conscious hard pressed to find on the shackled end of judgement and a bloody blade. Nothing of her situation read clear, the semantics of it all a chaotic throw of roughly handled words, sentences that brought the eye over them over and over again.

Nothing of her situation read clear, the semantics of it all a chaotic throw of roughly handled words, sentences that brought the eye over them over and over again.

Over and over again.

She saw it in his eyes, a light that swirled with the maelstrom of inquisition, desperate to put the pieces back in place with only the **[** corners **]** in his hands. Unaware that they came from a separate puzzle entirely. Cadoc didn't have the heart to break it to him that she hadn't even considered a defense.

"Dalton, Breckenridge," Cullen's voice was a stern command. In unison they acknowledged him, heavy platemail clacking together as they shifted their weight to attention. "I'll need a full report of the events in Val Royeaux. Sir Armont and I will escort the prisoner before the Council."

"Yes sir." The two men left Cadoc's side, rejoining the community that they had come to protect.

Sir Armont watched them leave, grey eyes lingering even in the wane of their ghost, as if the question in their departure would be answered by the silence thereafter. It left the air about them thick and heavy, like a sack mead without the sugar sweet stone. Cadoc couldn't bear his silence, not that she had anything against him in particular, more so silence - it was deafening.

And she meant it literally.

"I didn't realize the Inquisitor was looking for me," Cadoc tittered.

"With _that_ stunt," said Cullen, "Everyone in Orlais was. You're just lucky the Inquisition got to you first."

"I fell into a pile of rotten fish. I haven't changed my clothes in three days SINCE then, after walking clear across the Realm and up a swyving mountain. I'm probably going to be executed in the very SAME clothes and then, oh, probably _buried_ in them. Only, you wouldn't know that because you've been trying not to breath in through your nose this whole time. But yeah. I would _definitely_ label this as lucky," said Cadoc.

"You're being sarcastic," Cullen said, "But it's true. If my men hadn't been in Val Royeaux you'd be hanging by your neck in the city square."

"Oh, graphic," Cadoc said, "Doesn't really suit you."

"Nor does _murder_ suit _you_ ," he snapped. His brow knit as a heavy sigh escaped him. Frustrated, he ran his fingers through his hair, "What were you thinking?"

"Everything went great, right up until my arrest," she shrugged, "Hey," she cocked her head to the side, golden eyes stealing Sir Armont's glance, "I can see you're trying to put the pieces together over there, but," the word exaggerated on a song's cadence, "It's nothing that romantic. Your Commander and I met a few years back before I was killing people for gold."

"How unfortunate for you," he said to Cullen.

"Truly," the Commander replied with a sad laugh. He turned his back on the woman, a soft mountain sound drifting on a cold breeze that teased the furs of the Commander's half cloak. He started forward, marching through their makeshift city with pointed determination. In tow followed the prisoner and her charge, though it read clear on Sir Armont's face that he'd prefer to be anywhere else in that exact moment.

Cadoc would have had to agree.

"So murdering people," said Sir Armont, "This is a new development?"

"No, just the getting paid for it part," shrugged Cadoc.

'"For all that you were," sighed Cullen bitterly, "I hope it was worth it."

"50,000 gold is a lot of money," Cadoc said, "I'd stab my own mother for that amount of gold. I mean, she's already dead so it wouldn't really change anything. But that wouldn't stop me from digging her up. Look," for once a touch of seriousness found voice in her words, "I know you're only trying to help, Commander, but how about you just let this one go, huh? Shit happens, sometimes it happens to people you know, sometimes it happens to people you don't - and sometimes it even happens to you. Unfortunately for me, it's the latter. Nothing you can do about that. Corrine Le Paulmier was a dropper and an eyndill fleak. Sure no one will miss _her_ , but count the other two and you got yourselves a wicked headline. This is Val Royeaux we're talking about. Can't spell family without fame. Or at least half of the letters. But no," she said, "It wasn't worth it. I didn't get paid. I'm stuck here with you fine people instead." She laughed.

And she was alone.

Cadoc was a tedious conversation, a complicated equation with no trying in every turn of phrase and always had been, When Cullen had first met her amongst the chaos of the Circle, it was that cheeky bias that endeared him to her. She had a manner of way that tore down the condemnation of the Realm, bartered worry for drollery with eelish grins and foolhardy gesture. It was hard to concentrate on the exigency of war with the Darkspawn and her Archdemon, when the Grey Warden charged to it didn't perceive the threat as menacing.

The Blight was a joke - and now so was her commination.

As a Commander now, Cullen could not understand. And he wondered, just briefly, if Cadoc really had ever cared.

Or did the punchline surpass a spurious valor?

He said nothing.

They marched up the stone lay steps toward the Skyhold castle doors where soldiers greeted their presence in passing. The banners of their Heraldry donned the walks, unfurled standards of expertly crafted silks embroidered in spun silver and gold. Cadoc had seen them before throughout the Realm, mostly in unremarkable villages and townships, small reaches of influence beyond their mountain borders, growing ever the more prevalent as time passed.

And she wasn't the only one who noticed.

"Is the Council gathered?" Cullen stopped before the ornate castle doors, questioning the two Knights subject to guard them.

"Everyone except you, Sir." The two men moved together, each tending to respective handles and pulling open the great doors. Slowly they gave to their demands, a heavy sigh on their hinges as they glided over marbled floors and flooded the castle foyer in the golden light of an afternoon sun.

Cullen was first to cross the threshold. Behind him, Sir Armont gave Cadoc a less than gentle nudge, forcing her in step behind the Commander. "Inquisitor," she heard Cullen speak, "Warden Commander Nhot-Cadoc," her name, "F _ormer_ ," and venom, "Hero of Ferelden and Champion of Redcliffe." Oh how he seemed to hate her name even more in that moment.

* * *

 **A/N: I'm hoping to have a more regular schedule of posting parts for this FF. I apologize for the whack hiatus. Thanks for the views, favs and follows! It's greatly appreciated! More to definitely come!**


	3. Chapter 1: Canary Blue

**AND THE STUFFED BIRD LAUGHED  
** **Chapter 1: Canary Blue**

* * *

Castle Skyhold was terribly out of place before Cadoc.  
Which was quite ridiculous if one were to consider it, for how could a place be _out of place_?  
Surely Skyhold was precisely where it needed to be.  
It was Cadoc, who _wasn't_.

Her leather boots were quiet on the stone floors, barely a whisper of a word to her pathway. Her dark brown curls fell over her shoulders as she craned her neck to take in the draught that enveloped her in a warmth of hearth fire and aggravation. Enthralled, if only mildly, with its grandeur.

Skyhold Castle was a fine stone cut of Maker's grace; great cathedral windows a mosaic of rainbow colors glittered in every catch of light. Sun reflected off the stone floor like an ocean's wave, breathing. Their shadow-light cast drew length upon the room and made the walk seem that much longer and that much further between the stone cut giants that presided over her domain. And though the artistry of their form was impeccable, their eyes were flawed in vacant stares that captured no audience. Sconces held vigil above their bowed heads, flames flickering in the mountain's breath as it sighed in through open doors; great caged candelabras of solid brass that never once moved, secured by chain links more than two fists around.

Cadoc whistled her awe to the vast arc of ceiling.

Such elegance was fit for the courts of Orlais, not forgotten behind the shadow of the Realm. And still even, as the Inquisition's influence grew, that grand bastion accommodated only four people and remained, at least at present, unseen by the public's gaze. They stood astride the Herald's throne, a gryffon's foot seat swathed in a red velvet plush, her grain a beautiful gold, aged by the sun herself and worn by only one man. He sat with posture to match the stone giants that birthed from the walls of his Kingdom's hold. His hands fell neatly over the curve of the chair's arm, fingers settled into the soft grooves of feathered engravings. The sharpness of his eyes could draw blood, and had. His mien as bitter as the mountain's cold, utterly impassive and never knowing the quirk of a smile beneath that salt and pepper beard.

Two of those women flanked his sides, one, Cadoc recognized, the other, she did not. The latter being a sunkissed beauty dressed in golden throws, quill poised between her fingers like a dagger thick with blood. A neat roll of parchment hugged the writing board in her hands, the candle at its head illuminated elegant strokes of cursive, wax dripping over its edge like the tears statues wept. The other woman…

"So it is true," spoke, "The Hero of Ferelden has returned." She was a tall summer's drink, cold and sobering. She was dressed in glittering scales of lavender, a halo of burgundy fabric wrapped about the soft fire of her hair. Elegance touched on every syllable of lecture, a pleasant cadence of accent. Anger did not know her tongue – but it certainly knew her eyes.

"I never left," Cadoc replied, her eyes still crawling over the structures, never once acknowledging the group before her, yet knowing all the same exactly who they were – or, at least, what they wore. And in some cases, even hated it. "Didn't your birds tell you?"

"I was informed that you had left for Seheron after the Blight."

"No," said Commander Cullen, "It would appear that after the Blight, Warden Nhot has taken to more covetous activities. A group of my men picked her up in Val Royeaux after she murdered three women. Two guardsmen positively identified her as their assailant, along with one of the De'Croismare estate's servants."

"Yes, I heard," said Leliana, "It is not so surprising, Lady Le Paulmier was a Friend of Red Jenny. There are countless noblemen that could have wanted her dead."

"At least one," said Cadoc with a grin and a shrug.

"The fact that she was a Friend of Sera's is inconsequential," Cullen said, "It does not excuse the deaths of Ladies De'Croismare and Descoteaux."

"Unless of course they were criminals too," said the Scribe, "This _**is**_ Val Royeaux we are talking about."

"What exactly are you suggesting, Josephine?" Cullen asked with a frown.

"Only what everyone is thinking," said the Scribe.

"I can't believe you're actually considering this," the silent sentinel at the foot of the throne's stage spoke, a dark haired warrior with the trophies of battle etched into what little softness touched her cheeks. "She is an assassin, how can we trust her to help? For all we know she could have planned this."

"Weren't you the one who suggested finding Warden Nhot in the first place?" Josephine's tongue was a fluent song, every syllable sung a perfect diction.

"That was before all of this," spoke the Warrior.

"She is still a valuable ally," suggested Leliana.

"A dangerous one," the Warrior emphasized.

"You'd be wise to consider the Seeker's words, Leliana," the Herald's voice was a blood scarred blade, "Though the fact that she has turned to mercenary work is disappointing, it comes as no surprise. A lot of Warden Nhot's decisions have made her mostly unpopular with the general public. King Alistair in particular refuses to acknowledge her accomplishments during the Blight. And though he would never formally state it, considers her just as much a traitor to the realm as Loghain Mac Tir," he shifted his weight to his feet and stood from his throne. His arms folded behind his back as he rose his chin to match the Kings of older Ages. His black hair was pulled back, braided on Northern fingers, subtle whispers of a barbarous past, yet his manner betrayed savage, "Allying with the Warden Commander is dangerous not just to our people, but to the Inquisition's reputation. I'm already being pressured by the Lords of Val Royeaux for her head. And with _just_ cause," he added.

"Warden Nhot's decisions during the Blight were unliked, but they were not wrong," protested Leliana.

"Her choices during the Blight is not what's being judged. It is the fact that she is an assassin," said the Warrior coolly.

"As is Sera," Leliana shot back, "As well as a hundred more men under the Inquisition's banner. What makes her any less trustworthy?"

" _Every_ thing," said the Warrior.

"She is _still_ a Grey Warden."

"Inquisitor," Josephine piped up, the words clasping to a breath that hung on glossed lips, "Might I remind you that Warden Nhot is a city elf," she said, "She doesn't have any Vallaslin and without her armor is mostly unrecognizable. It is possible," she paused briefly, "to recruit her without anyone knowing."

"Ouch," Cadoc said.

"No offense," Jospehine quickly added.

It quickly began making sense, Cadoc noted, as to why there were so few bodies present to her testimony.  
If she ever had chance to voice it.  
Let alone think of one.  
She was better off considering referrals.  
She wondered if Zevran was still in Antiva. And her shoulders shook with stifled giggles to the irony of it all.

"Commander," Inquisitor Trevelyan spoke, "I have not yet heard your opinion."

Cullen hesitated for a good long moment as he considered the weight of the question posed. "Warden Nhot is unconventional at best," he started slowly, "But not senseless. She was a loyal ally during the age of the Blight. She had a decision to make and King Alistair did not like the outcome. But I wouldn't be so bold as to label her a traitor. Judging by her past deeds: not only is she willing to make the difficult decisions, but able to. I believe she can still do some good for the Realm, and the Inquisition is the perfect opportunity for restitution. However, I cannot champion this irreconcilable path. I'd have to agree with Seeker Pentaghast in that regard. She _is_ dangerous and I wouldn't recommend allowing her free roam of the grounds without supervision."

"Then the matter is settled," Inquisitor Trevelyan said, "Cadoc," and he held no reverence for her address, "You will be placed beneath the charge of Warden Blackwall. You'll work the stables, you will not be permitted within the barracks, nor to handle any weapons until your intentions are made clear. I do not care what you call yourself, but you will not use your name or your title. No one is to know _who_ you are. Do I make myself clear?"

Cadoc opened her mouth to remark, be it in jest or perfect earnest was left a wilting thought as the Inquisitor addressed the room once more.

"Sir Armont," he said, "Find me Blackwall."

"Inquisitor," the Knight bowed his head before turning on his heel. He pushed open one of those immense doors, light creeping in once more where feathers of ash danced in its beam. He let out a small grunt, the plate of his armor clacking against itself as a small elven woman shoved past him.

"Move," she ordered. The girl moved with a deadest determination, her short mop of platinum blond hair bouncing with ever boot fall. She raised an incredulous finger to the shackled prisoner and demanded, "Is this her?" She disregarded reason as well as her own inquiry, not waiting for reply she threw the bony ridge of her fist at the prisoner's face.

Cullen was far too slow to realize what was occurring and Cadoc never even tried to duck it.

Blood poured from the former Warden's nose, the shackles at her wrist clinking against one another as she brought her hands to her face. A deep river of crimson flowed between her fingers, slithering down her wrists like a corpse tree vine.

"Sera!" a collective of voices reprimanded her in every range of emotion individually. Commander Cullen caught her hands and held her back, soft eyes hardening as they begged her calm.

"What, you think I wouldn't notice, yeah?" the candor of her voice skipped a beat, an uneasy tide of emotion as her eyes struck Cadoc like daggers. "She's the elf that killed my friend," snapped Sera. "Why are you even talking to her?" Frustration brought her voice to an unsteady soprano. Her gaze shifted to the Inquisitor, a tinge of hurt buried deep within those opalescent skies, "And _you_ ," she spat, "Lucky I don't come up there and do the same to you, friggen shitebag, shoulda known you weren't any different. You're just going to let her get away with it, yeah?"

"No," said Inquisitor Trevelyan, "I'm going to hire her. Just like I did you."

"What?" Sera exclaimed.

"Your friend was a crappy assassin," Cadoc said over bloodstained lips, "She tried to kill me with silverware. I mean, if she had pulled it off that would have been impressive. But, she didn't and she's a crappy assassin."

"Why you-!" Sera made a grab for the woman over Cullen's shoulders, but the Commander fought her throws.

"Enough," Trevelyan snapped.

Sera scowled, her lips pursed with every foul word in creator's existence, yet remained silent expressing her crass hatred in only a sustained look. "S'not right," she muttered, shoving away from the Commander, "I hope someone _accidentally_ shoots you," and then added, "The both of you," as she glanced up to the Inquisitor.


	4. Chapter 2: Duck Soup

**AND THE STUFFED BIRD LAUGHED  
** **Chapter 2: Duck Soup**

* * *

"My commander told me stories about you."

Warden Blackwall leaned over the woodwork Gryffon, dark eyes focused to the intricate score of spiral that drew life from the cut of the small metal chisel. Every feather was an hour's worth of patient effort and aching shoulders. His hands shook ever so slightly, a mild tremor that rendered lines a crooked notch. He held his breath and sat poised before his craft, staying the cut of his tools until his fingers found steady. It went on like this for hours and resulted in little, but beautiful, work.

Cadoc wouldn't know, she had spent those very same hours fighting with the Inquisitor's Forder. "Lots of people tell stories about me," she said, "And they're _all_ bad."

The horse sneezed.

"Some were," Blackwall admitted, "But not all of them." Outside of the Inquisition's hearing, Warden Blackwall was the only one who knew precisely who Cadoc had been and currently _was_. The details throughout which, wanting, but altogether there in some manner of fractured form. He _knew_ she was responsible for Loghain's adjudication, for the rout of the Blight, and the Archdemon's ruin – but he did _not_ know that she was responsible for the death of three women not more than half a day earlier. And that wasn't to say he hadn't heard, more so that he rejected the notion that it had occurred, or, more so, that it had _occurred_ under such pointed circumstance.

Cadoc idly pushed the stable bedding about with a fork. The scent of fresh hay pervaded the dingy little farmhouse like a cheap perfume. The horse pawed shiftlessly at the stone beneath its hooves, spoiling his freshly laid bed. Cadoc groaned in mild frustration. "That's a surprise," she said, "They still calling me Oathbreaker? Or, Warden Nhot-a-Warden. I always liked that one."

Blackwall chuckled, "Some, but a lot of people still call you a Hero, believe it or not. My Commander was one of them."

"What did he tell you? That I single handedly slayed an army of Darkspawn with only a chair leg and a bottle of Grain Water?"

"He told me that when Ser Landry challenged you to an honor duel you refused to draw your weapon. He said it was the most ridiculous fight he'd ever seen. The Knight guard chasing you around the back alleys of Denerim, swinging his sword like a mad man and you calling his mother a prostitute."

"A half copper prostitute," Cadoc amended.

Blackwall laughed.

"Ended up tiring himself out, didn't have to lift a finger, man just fell over winded. Fell asleep _right_ there. Carried him into the tavern so everyone would think he was jagged instead of losing an honor duel to himself." Cadoc's chuckle was cut short by a harsh "oof!" as the horse's body listed against her and pinned her against the stable wall, "Little help?"

Blackwall looked up and smiled. The elven woman could barely contest the weight of the beast that leaned into her. Every grasp at withers and push to the barrel of its chest was hardly a suggestion, not even a whisper to a cause. The Forder stood unmoved, head bowed to the hay swathed Earth, tilting its head just enough to press its nose through the slats in the stable gate. His lips reached for the blades of green just outside his hold as hunger subjugated absurdity in action. Teeth clamped down on appetite, tearing Spring from Winter, along with the roots that had once tethered her beneath the pillow of white. With care, the Inquisitor's horse withdrew his head from bars and began to chew, yet still never moved.

The ball of moss, dirt and root bounced against velvet muzzle.

Cadoc gave up.

Blackwall pushed his stool back and stood. He clapped the dust from his hands, rubbing fingers over one another as he approached the poor elf's prison. He pulled open the stall gate and sidled up to the Forder. With practiced hands he coaxed him from his tend, allowing Cadoc to breath once more. The Warden's hands smoothed over the horse's cheek as his newly appointed stable hand regained, what she called, "composure."

"…I heard the elf's testimony." Backwall's eyes studied her carefully as she brushed the dust from her breeches. The timbre to his voice drew serious as he watched her, a melancholy that recalled penance. "The one from the Descoteaux estate. You didn't say a word. I saw the look in your eyes when she was speaking, I know that look," he said, "What happened in Val Royeaux is…something more than just a coup..."

Cadoc's eyes found his as she made her way from between board and horse, running her free hand over its crest and poll before giving it a good solid pat on the forehead. "Are you suggesting the witness a liar? Or me?"

"Never said that," said Blackwall, "But I certainly don't believe everything she said. And I certainly don't believe anything _**you**_ say." He offered her a soft chuckle.

"I think you're calling us liars."

"I have known criminals," said Blackwall, "And I know you're not one."

"Yeah? You know that do you? I think," Cadoc moved past him, but never turned her gaze from him, "You've put too much faith in those stories," she gave a nod of her head, gesturing to the air about them where his tale of knights and prostitutes still lingered in its sound. "And now that the _Hero of Ferelden_ has turned out to be a crazed murder-hobo, you're grasping at straws trying to keep your bale. Sorry _love_ , but the world doesn't work like that. Some of us are just nut-hooks and staves." She offered a sarcastic Knight's salute, "But thanks for the vote of confidence, Warden."

 **Prologue: Cat Lap**

* * *

Γ _A loud clang followed the exclamation, several cups smashing to the floor, silver platter resounding like a drum, spinning on its edge for seconds_ ˥ _  
that counted like minutes. "Maker…" a soft gasp escaped the elven servant. Her fingers touched her lips, eyes wide at the sight before her, s_ _he  
_ _couldn't move and yet – couldn't stop shaking. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears, time slowing to a bitter crawl as Lady Le Paulmier  
turned. Empty eyes captured the elven woman's bright blue eyes, the noble woman an impassive doll of porcelain, haunted by the blood that flecked her dress  
like petals of Spring's rose._

 _A lace gloved hand drifted up, ghostly fingers curling in, beckoning the serving girl forward._

 _Her feet betrayed her.  
_ _Her tongue denied her.  
_ _But her eyes – they never wavered._

" _Elf," Lady Le Paulmier addressed pointedly, "What's your name?"_

 _She screamed._

˪ _And more than twenty feet below, where Lady_ _Descoteaux's broken doll of_ _frame drowned in a bitter sweet blossom of cherry – Cadoc heard._ ˼

* * *

"May I ask you something?"

"Knock and Loose." Cadoc hung the stable fork to a pair of nails in the wall.

Blackwall stroked the Forder's muzzle, the question a lingering glance upon the pattern of its face, tested over and over again in his mind, knowing all too certainly that whatever riposte the elven woman would counter with would be anywhere from the truth. He settled then instead, on asking simply: "Have you picked a name yet?"

Cadoc never hesitated, and with the utmost seriousness delivered the name: "Dirt."

"I'm not going to call you that," Blackwall stated bluntly.

"No? That's elfy, elves love dirt."

"Children," said Blackwall, "Love dirt. Elves tend to be more _**in tune**_ with nature. There's a difference in there."

Cadoc exhaled sharply through her nose as if to discredit sound advice. "Point," she said and considered a much blander anthology of forename, "How about Willow…Tree?"

"It's an improvement."

Cadoc threw up her hands in exasperation, "I'm from Denerim," she protested, "All the guys are named Edmund and all the girls are named Giselle."

"Why not use that then?"

"Do I _**look**_ like a Giselle?"

Blackwall considered her for a good long moment. "No. You're right," he said and gave a nod, "You look like a Dirt."

Cadoc laughed.

"What about Lavellan," Blackwall asked between the elven girl's fit of laughter.

"That's actually not terrible," Cadoc admitted, "Where'd you come up with that?"

"Ran into a group of Dalish hunters when I was passing through Wycome. That was their clan. Lavellan."

"Yeesh, Dalish," Cadoc scrunched her nose.

"Not particularly fond of the Dalish, huh?" Blackwall asked.

"I once had a Dalish clan call _me_ uncivilized before their Keeper tried to kill me. So, not really. Lavellan," she repeated the name, "Not bad though."

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for the views, favs, follows, and comments! It's greatly appreciated! Hope to keep it interesting for you all and I hope you keep enjoying it! c:**


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